Patriot Play

by Don Pendleton

  His target went down with a moan of protest, hitting the concrete hard, the subgun bouncing from slack fingers. By the time Lyons reached him he was struggling to suck breath into his shredded lungs and coughing up bloody froth. The big ex-cop triggered a head shot to silence the guy for good. He leathered the Python and scooped up the man’s fallen weapon, frisking the guy for spares mags. He found one and slid it behind his belt, then checked the subgun, making sure it was cocked and ready for use.

  He heard a rush of sound. The enemy closing in now, suddenly eager for the kill. Lyons had no objection to that, as long as it wasn’t him being killed. He glanced ahead and saw the shadows bouncing off the wall.

  Eager.

  Too eager.

  He waited in the gloom, his weapon ready, knowing they were going to walk directly into his muzzle-blast.

  And they did. Coming forward, weapons up and starting to spit fire as they closed on his former position. Someone among the group was yelling orders. Another slip. The guy was simply making it easier for Lyons to pinpoint them. As they came into view, moving in a bunch, weapons still directed at where Lyons had been, he moved up to the open section of cover and triggered the subgun, feeling it vibrate in his hands as it jacked out a stream of burning slugs that caught the opposition force and sent them into total confusion. Lyons arced the weapon back and forth, holding it firm so that not one shot fired was wasted. He saw the Brethren gunners go down, bodies twisting as flesh was punctured by the lethal burst. Empty casings rang sharply as they tumbled to the concrete floor. In a matter of seconds the expectant militia became victims of their own carelessness. They fell and crashed and crumbled to the concrete, blood spurting from torn flesh, clothing shredded and weapons slipping from their fingers. Pain overtook whatever else they might have been thinking. The numbing shock of hard-driven slugs piercing flesh and breaking bone blocked out any clear thoughts about what was happening.

  Lyons felt the subgun click empty. He worked the eject button and let the spent mag drop to the floor while he retrieved and clicked in his second clip. He cocked the weapon and stepped forward, the muzzle starting to spit fire again as he made certain that there would be no Lazarus rising from the dead this day, only letting his finger off the trigger when he was satisfied.

  The echo of autofire faded into silence. Lyons got rid of the partly used magazine and replaced it with a fresh one from a dropped subgun. A few more clips went into his belt pouches. Lyons turned and walked away from the dead. One of the corpses had a cell phone clutched in his hand. Lyons took it, noting that the guy had been dialing a speed number. He saw the name on the screen and smiled, dropping the cell phone into his pocket.

  He reached the open door to the workshop and checked the exterior. The yard still looked clear save for the two vehicles he’d seen on his arrival. Lyons turned back inside the warehouse and worked his way back to the stacked boxes of ordnance. He pulled the canvas sheet away and took his prepared explosive packages from his backpack, distributing them through the pile and setting the timers, giving himself ten minutes to get away. He pulled the sheet back over what had now become a large explosive device and made his way to the door. He stepped outside and slid the doors shut.

  The Able Team leader hurriedly returned to where he had concealed his SUV. Unlocking the door, he got behind the wheel and started the engine. Lyons rolled out of the deserted industrial site, making for the service road, heading back in the general direction of the highway. Checking his watch he saw he still had a couple of minutes before the explosives detonated. Pulling to the side of the road, he took out the cell phone and checked the power level. There was ample. He tapped the speed dial number he had seen on-screen. It rang a few times before it was answered.

  “Ribak?”

  “Yeah. This better be good news.” There was a hesitation as Ribak became aware he was having a conversation with someone he didn’t recognize.

  “It is for me, Ribak. You won’t be so happy.”

  “Who the fuck is…” Ribak stopped, realization rendering him silent for a moment.

  “Give me a little of your time, Ribak.” Lyons glanced at his watch and saw the seconds counting down. “You know what they say about Chicago being a windy city? It can be pretty noisy, too. Especially today.”

  “What the fuck are you talking—”

  The explosion was deafening even at Lyons’s distance from it. He felt the SUV rock from the blast. In his rearview mirror he could see the fireball rising behind him.

  “What the hell was that?” Ribak yelled.

  “Don’t you recognize the sound of your weapons and explosive stash blowing all to hell, Ribak? That warehouse you had in Chicago? Gone. Along with that team of Brethren watchdogs. No guns for your storm troopers. Ribak, don’t you think some days would have been better if you’d stayed in bed?”

  “You bastard, I’m going to take you and your partner down personally.”

  “You’ll get your chance, Ribak. You and Seeger. Use your time wisely because it’s running out.”

  As Ribak began to hurl his threats over the cell phone, Lyons threw it out of the window. He drove off, smoke from the demolished warehouse starting to drift across the landscape. Minutes later, as Lyons reached the main highway, he heard the distant howl of sirens as police and emergency services converged on the blast site.

  He drove in the opposite direction, favoring his side and accepting that he was going to need some medical attention. He didn’t like the idea of standing down. The ongoing campaign aimed at destabilizing the Brethren was going well. Losing momentum was not advisable. Bolan would want to keep hitting them. Everywhere they could and as hard as they could.

  He took out his own cell phone and speed-dialed Stony Man Farm.

  “That big bang in Chicago anything to do with you?” Barbara Price asked.

  “What big bang in Chicago?”

  “The one we just picked up coming over the wire from some TV helicopter that spotted a fireball on the south side.”

  “Okay, I’ll come clean. Can you get me some secure medical treatment? I need a couple of stitches. I’m sure Hal can conjure up a Stony Man approved medic faster than I can. My room at the hotel.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Price kept her voice level, but it didn’t prevent Lyons picking up her concern.

  “Nothing serious,” he said. “Just needs looking at.”

  “Really? Okay, hotshot, we’ll have someone make a house call.”

  “Thanks,” Lyons said. “I’ll check in later.”

  “You’d better.”

  Before he left the area and got into a busier environment Lyons parked and took off his shoulder rig and belt, stowing them in the leather carryall in the foot well on the passenger side. He slid into his leather jacket and pulled the zip high to conceal his bloodied combat suit. He moved off and cut through the city in the direction of his hotel. Using his room key card, he accessed the basement parking garage, took his carryall and used the elevator to reach his floor. Locating his room, Lyons let himself in. He retrieved his Python from the bag and slid it beneath one of the pillows on the bed. He stowed the bag in the rear of a closet, laid out clean clothing and headed for the shower. He had to soak a towel and hold it over the drying blood patch that had stuck his combat suit to the wound. He carefully peeled off the suit, gritting his teeth as the reluctant material clung to the wound edges, but he finally got it off. He stepped under the warm shower and let it sluice over him. It stung when it hit the ragged gash, and the floor of the shower became tinged with red for a while. Lyons lathered up, then rinsed himself clean. Minutes later, dried and feeling slightly less battered, he wrapped one of the towels around his body to protect his wound, then slipped on one of the bathrobes he found sealed in plastic, and rang room service for a pot of coffee.

  Lyons checked his cell phone and saw that the power was starting to drop. He fished his charger out of his bag and plugged in the phone.

  His coffee arrived ten minutes
later. Lyons poured himself a cup and perched on the edge of the bed while he drank. His cell phone rang. It was Brognola. The man sounded weary, and Lyons knew exactly how he felt.

  “Your medic is on his way. His name’s Whitmore. You sure you can stay on this, Ironman?”

  “Have to. Only way to knock these people down is to keep at them. Take out everything they have and cut down their people. I can’t give them the chance to regroup.”

  “We had a call from Striker a while ago. He’s on his way home. You come in as soon as you can.

  “Will do. You had a time-out since we talked?”

  “No chance. I’m about to leave for an update with the Man. He sounded irritable.”

  “Striker and I are moving as fast as we can. Tell him.”

  Brognola laughed. “Don’t think I won’t.”

  Lyons heard a tap on his door. “That might be my medicare.”

  He broke the connection, picking his Python from beneath the pillow, and made his way across the room. Lyons cracked the door and confronted the lean, gray-haired man in a dark suit, carrying a medical bag.

  “Agent Benning?”

  “You are?”

  “Leland Whitmore.”

  Lyons stepped back, easing the door open enough to let the man inside. He locked it once Whitmore had entered. The doctor noticed the pistol in Lyons’s hand and smiled briefly.

  “I’m here to cure, not kill you, Agent Benning. I was told you might be a little wary.”

  “Most of the people I’ve met the last few days had it the other way ’round. I guess I’m still in defensive mode.”

  Whitmore placed his bag on a small table and freed the catch, pulling the bag open. Lyons’s eyes never moved from the man’s hand as he reached inside and withdrew…a rolled bundle. He pulled on a pair of surgical gloves.

  “Let’s take a look at you. Sit on the end of the bed.”

  Lyons sat and slipped his robe down to his waist. Whitmore removed the bloodied towel the big ex-cop had used and examined the wound. He took his time, his fingers gently probing.

  “What did this?” he asked.

  “Got hit by a length of steel. Guy was using it like a club.”

  “That would account for the ragged formation. Some dirt in there, too. You were lucky. It hasn’t penetrated too deeply. Probably bruised a rib, but I’m pretty sure it hasn’t done any more damage than the gash. I’ll clean it up and put in a few stitches.”

  “Go ahead. And before you say it, a couple of days’ rest isn’t in the cards.”

  “Why did I know that was coming?”

  Whitmore was thorough. He cleaned the wound, then gave Lyons a local anesthetic to numb the area so he could put in the stitches. After applying a pressure bandage he stood back and peeled off his gloves. He took a plastic bottle from his bag and placed it on the table.

  “Painkillers, if you need them. No more than two at a time. And try to avoid driving if you take them. They can hit you with some drowsiness. I don’t want to come out again and find you wrapped around a telephone pole.”

  “Understood, Doc, and thanks.”

  Whitmore wrote on a pad, tore off a sheet and handed it to Lyons. “Prescription for more if you need them.”

  Lyons pulled his bathrobe back in place. He shook Whitmore’s hand. “Grateful for your help, Doc.”

  “That’s what they pay me for. Look, I know it’s not my place, but watch yourself, Agent Benning. I have no idea what your assignment is. Knowing the way you people operate, it isn’t going to be a walk in the park. Just take care, son.”

  Lyons nodded. He followed Whitmore to the door and let him out, securing it behind the man. He checked his coffee and found the pot had gone cold. He rang room service and ordered more, plus sandwiches and a side salad. While he waited, he got out of the bathrobe and dressed. He put the Python back under the pillow, smiling when he recalled Chief Harper’s remark about sleeping with his weapon. The cop hadn’t been far off the mark. His order arrived, and Lyons sat and ate. His appetite was far from diminished and this time he made sure he drank the coffee while it was still hot. When he had finished he went to the door and hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the handle. Then he went to bed and slept.

  “BELLER WILL BE LANDING in a few minutes, Deke. I want you on that plane. Tie up with Juan. Make sure he concludes his Brethren business in Boise, then make sure he gets back here in one piece. After that fuckup with Lorens, I don’t want any more losses. Especially not my surviving lawyer.”

  “Begging your pardon, sir, but Zac was due to go anyhow. He had ripped us off for those diamonds.”

  “I don’t need reminding how my so-called SIC and friend screwed me, Deke. Am I the only one around here who wants to keep this group together? You’re the one with the credentials. Go do the job. Protect Juan and get him back here ASAP. Okay?”

  “No problem, Mr. Seeger. Consider it done.”

  THEY MET in the same place. Lewis Bradshaw was on his second cup of coffee by the time Brognola arrived.

  “Keeping you busy, Hal?”

  “Sign of the times. You have something for me?”

  “I guessed you would be interested in a report I had from West Africa. After your friends had left the country, our local contacts filed it. Nice job your people did, by the way. With M’Tusi dead, his organization has decided to fight among itself. Some problem with who should take over. From what I hear, there won’t be anyone left to run it if they keep on killing each other.”

  “Nice people.”

  “The part of the report I thought you’d really be interested in concerned Max Belmont, Jack Regan and M’Tusi’s broker, Kesawayo.”

  Brognola paused with his coffee cup halfway to his lips. “We going to have more problems with them?”

  “I doubt it. Belmont’s body was found in the bush. He’d been hacked to death with a panga. Kesawayo is dead, too. Skull caved in with a rock found next to him, then finished off with the same panga.”

  “Regan?”

  Bradshaw smiled and raised his hands. “No sign. Only tracks leading away from the two bodies. He’s vanished, Hal.”

  “Son of a bitch. We’ve come across Regan a few times and no matter how bad things get, he always walks away. That guy has a charmed life.”

  “You know the twist? He’ll be fixing a deal for one of our agencies next time around. Regan is a sly fox, but knows how to turn a buck. He doesn’t give a damn who pays the tab as long as he gets his cut.”

  Brognola didn’t need telling. Or being advised that Jack Regan would show up again. That fact was as sure as day following night. “His luck will run out one day.”

  Bradshaw nodded. “I hope so. Hal, what do I say? You came through. Did what you promised. I won’t forget it. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Clair Valens sat in her car, her eyes fixed on the man she had been tailing most of the day. On and off over the past few days, too. This time, she told herself. This time it’s going to pay off.

  She reached beneath her leather coat to check her piece, her fingers touching the solid butt of the Glock holstered on her hip. A recriminatory smile edged her mouth as she thought how many times she had done the very same thing over the past hour. A few times, she admitted. She was edgy, aware she was flying solo on this one. No backup to keep her safe. Immediately she thought about Jackson Byrde, her former partner. He had been killed in the line of duty during the Zero affair. Not killed, she corrected. Deliberately executed as a show of force. It had been many months ago now, but the chilling memory of that day had stayed with Valens and would remain until she had full closure.

  Valens was in control of what she was doing. It was against department policy for an agent to run a personal investigation and she was risking her job by doing it. She was breaking protocol, she understood that, but it was something she could not ignore. Valens had a strong sense of justice. It was pushing her to these extremes and it would not leave
her alone until she brought down the man responsible.

  Eric Stahl.

  Ex-senator Eric Stahl. The man who had led the Zero conspiracy; the man who been removed from his government position as a punishment. Nothing else had changed. Stahl remained head of Stahl Industries. His power was hardly diminished. The complex tangle of contacts, both industrial and military, had conspired to maintain his survival and Stahl, after a suitable period out of the daylight, had resurfaced to carry on as before. His political maneuvering appeared to be at an end, but Valens refused to believe that for a moment.

  Stahl had ambition. He wanted to head the country, to take control of America. It had been the reason he had attempted to take control of Zero, the orbiting platform with its formidable array of weapons and sophisticated listening devices. A desire for such power would not dissipate following little more than a rap on the knuckles. Though she had not been privy to the deal Stahl had cut with the government, she knew the man would still lust after his supreme ambition.

  Valens had used her agency facilities to maintain a check on Stahl. Her personal dossier on the man and his activities had taken a long time to assemble due to the need for absolute discretion. She told no one, which meant she had little chance of using many contacts. Once her activities were brought into the light, her chances of exposure became stronger. Even her new partner, who she trusted in every other respect, knew nothing about her personal investigation into Eric Stahl’s business. Ray Curran had been a close, personal friend of Jackson Byrde. It had been hard for Valens not to tell Curran what she was doing, but she refrained from telling him. It would not have been fair to expect the man to keep her secret. She had decided to take a few days off from her accumulated vacation time and concentrate on her surveillance.

  A week ago Valens had seen Stahl with a man she felt she knew but could not identify until she ran a check on the license plate of the car he was driving. Her computer scan of the plate showed it belonged to Juan Amenta. When she asked for detailed information on Amenta, she learned he was a political activist and had links with antigovernment militia groups. Amenta’s background had him down as an attorney, with a practice in Chicago. Additional information brought up names of associates, which proved both insightful and left Valens with a feeling of unease.